That Makes You Nothing
by Laatija
Summary: There was fear in his eyes. Actual, honest to goodness, fear. "You have no mountain. You're not a king. That makes you nothing, really..." This is a closer look at what exactly happened on that mountainside at the end of the movie. One shot, Thorin-whump, no slash.


Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or anything. Duh.

A/N: Movie-verse. I've watched this movie twice now and each time I've been riveted by this one scene in particular (so hat's off to you, Mr. Armitage and Mr. Jackson). And so, the bunnies have been busy chomping on my muse. What on earth was going through Thorin's head when he saw Azog on that mountainside? Why did he attack so rashly like that? Why did I see fear in his eyes? So here's my spin on Thorin's POV during that end scene. It's a little rough and hastily written as these things sometimes must be in order to satisfy the plot bunnies.

Spoilers for the movie.

Mild spoilers for the book.

UPDATE: I watched the Hobbit again today and subsequently made a few minor changes to the story, including the name.

* * *

Something snapped.

It wasn't the first time but rather the sharp re-breaking of a barely healed bone. It snapped _again_.

To his credit, Thorin didn't break when his eyes first skidded over the pale faced orc – the Defiler. Azog. His heart had stopped beating for a precious moment. Shock numbed him to his very bones. But he didn't lose it in _that _moment.

In all honesty, Thorin hadn't believed it when the goblin king told him earlier that day. It was impossible. Azog had lost an arm and orcs weren't exactly the cleanest or most skilled healers in Middle Earth. Surely infection would have killed him…

And yet, there he sat on his unnaturally white warg, sneering up at Thorin with those soulless blue eyes - an abomination.

Thorin was many things these days. Mostly, he was tough. He wore his emotional scars like a coat of mail that kept his heart guarded from outside assault. He was also very serious. And very authoritative. And very courageous. And very passionate though he kept his passion well hidden behind the seemingly rash actions of a slighted king. He was impossibly deep and his layers had layers. His was the sort of authority that you must never ever question. And god forbid you even think of mocking it. He cared more deeply for his people then that fool of a hobbit could even dream of. He cared in that hardened 'solid as a rock' sort of way rather that in the gushy 'hugs and kisses' sort of way. Thorin would always be there for his own and fight for what they could not provide for themselves. Like a home. Which was to say that Thorin was not the sort of dwarf to allow fear to seize his mind.

So when a primal sort of terror swept in through his stomach, Thorin was completely unprepared. He couldn't move. He couldn't stop staring. The warmth bled out of his arms and legs. A brick of lead settled in his gut.

The Defiler rumbled something at him in the gravely orc speak but Thorin didn't exactly comprehend what was being said. He felt very far away. A lesser dwarf would have fainted by now if only because of the great invisible vice that squeezed his chest and made breathing something of a challenge.

And then the wargs were swarming the trees and Thorin acted on instinct more than anything. Chaos erupted. Branches snapped. The roots gave-way. Wolves howled. Orcs screamed obscenities. His own company were yelling. But everything seemed to be happening at a distance. He blinked and suddenly he was in Gandalf's tree with the others. And Gandalf… Gandalf was shooting fire!

Hope flickered in a dark hole in Thorin's heart. If his hope were a creature, it wouldn't have been a small bright delicate thing. No. His hope was like a gnawing rodent that spurred the fight inside of him. Difficult to corner and even harder to kill, it clawed at his resolve, keeping it up and moving before the sludge-like despair overwhelmed him.

Flaming pinecones were passed all around and the company started to fight back. Thorin snapped back into focus. He threw a pinecone and it smacked the muzzle of a warg, sending the beast scurrying for cover. The whole cliff top was burning now – the air thick with smoke. The wargs backed away with an animalistic fear gleaming in their eyes. The dwarves were hooting triumph.

A smile ghosted across his lips.

And then the pine tree loosed a groan that shuddered up through the wood and into the hearts of every living thing in it.

Realization clapped around his head.

_Too many dwarves!_

They were too heavy for one tree! And so it began to fall, grinding to a halt mere inches from tipping completely over the edge and sending them all into the seemingly unending darkness over the cliff top.

Panic flogged at his mind again. Fear closed around him like a steel trap. The pungent smell of orc and burning hair and rancid blood filled his nose. The frightened noises of his company pulled at his focus and he turned just in time to see someone fall. He couldn't even see who it was but that didn't much matter as his minds-eye could only see one face – Thror's face. His grandfather's face. The blood rushed in his ears and sounded like his father's screams of horror and the mighty roar of battle. So many voices crying out. So much anguish. The heat of the fire snapped at his skin. Dragon fire. The bitter memories swept over him, pulling him into the pain of the past with a vicious strength. The brutality of the moment overwhelmed his senses.

His heart thrashing, Thorin looked over at Azog. The Goblin Kings voice rang in his head._ "Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror - King under the Mountain... Except, you have no mountain. And you're not a king. That makes you...nothing, really..."_

That's when he snapped.

Fully steeped in the blood drenched past, everything seemed to fall away from Thorin. All thought and reason. Fury exploded out of him. Hands tightening around his sword, Thorin took as step forward. And then another. Suddenly, all he could see was Azog. Sound was irrelevant. Terrain was inconsequential. The pack of hungry wargs and blood thirsty orcs were mere shadows and smoke to him. He couldn't even begin to tell you what was happening to his kin behind him or who Bilbo Baggins was or why they were even on that cliff top to begin with. There was only one thing that filled him up from his toes to his ears.

Rage.

The futility of his actions was lost completely as Thorin charged forward. An evil desire flashed in Azog's eyes. But even that was a haze to the dwarf. He could only think of how badly he wanted to rend the flesh and sever the spine and cleave the Defiler from nape to navel.

And then the sticky hands of horror thrust themselves down his throat as Thorin realized his mistake. Pain exploded into his chest. And then his head. And then his back. The damn beast had its jaws around the thick of his body and searing agony ripped a cry from his throat.

_You fool! _

This wasn't a glorious battle field. This wasn't his home. He was not surrounded by his kinfolk. Everything was falling to pieces. The Defiler was going to kill him. The last of his great line was going to be stamped out on this godforsaken piece of mountain and then his kin were going to die and then the wizard was going to die and it was all for not. This was the end. Of everything. It was _the end_.

As he sailed through the air and was met by the unforgiving earth, Thorin did not feel a sense of peace. He didn't feel comforted by the thought of ending his struggles. He only felt cold and desperate.

With frantic fingers, he searched for his sword, still unwilling to allow his life to be taken so easily by the orc towering above him. It wasn't even Azog! He was even being robbed of a noble death by one of his greatest foes. Killed by a lack-luster orc with hardly a scratch on his enemy.

Thorin struggled even as the orc raised a blade to strike…

_The hobbit_. Out of no-where, came the hobbit.

It was such an utterly ridiculous notion that, for the briefest of moments, Thorin forgot everything else and fixated on the absurd fight that was happening before his very eyes. Bilbo Baggins, the would-be burglar, was defending him. It was sloppy and foolish and silly and Thorin was in awe.

But the awe was short lived. Pain and injury were darkening the edges of his vision and no matter how hard he pushed it away, the darkness encroached all the same and he was plunged into the impassive hole of unconsciousness where he was quite sure he would die.

And so it came as quite a surprise when the darkness was whisked away from him and Thorin found himself blinking up at the ancient face of Gandalf.

For a second, he was completely calm as he put some pieces together. And then a flash of alarm raced up his spine as many thoughts crashed around his consciousness. The first was a flood of relief that can only come with a near death experience. The end had not come and there was still a quest to be finished. And then came the sinking feeling of _not_ knowing. Was Azog still alive? What had happened? How many dwarves did they lose? How much blood had been spilled? And Bilbo…

That's when the panic started anew. Was Bilbo still alive? He must have asked the question out loud because Gandalf was reassuring him. Yes, Bilbo was alive. It would seem he had misjudged the tenacity of Mr. Baggins.

He struggled to stand up, groaning in pain as discomfort roiled in his gut. Broken ribs, most likely. Some bite wounds where the warg's teeth snuck past his armor. Battle wounds. It left him feeling weak and a little faint. But then strong arms were lifting him up and pride gave him a stubborn strength as he untangled himself from their hands.

Bilbo was standing there, as meek and harmless as you please.

Thorin literally owed him his life. He'd doubted the little creature. He'd berated him. He'd mocked him. He'd seen him as a burden. In his own mind, Thorin treated Bilbo with little more respect than a dog. Not even a dog. Dogs had more usefulness then the fumbling selfish Halfling. And he told him as much in a voice that was hot with anger at his own nearsightedness. He'd sorely misjudged the hobbit.

"I have never been so wrong in all my life..." Thorin said, emotion choking his words. The hard protective shell fell away and he swept the little Halfling into a tight hug. It was virtually unheard of. Thorin Oakenshield did not hug willy nilly. But in the moment, as the anxiety dissipated and the thrill of escape came over him, he couldn't help himself. A crack had opened up in his hardened shield and he gushed out thankfulness before the crack closed back up again. Which it would. But for now, he praised Bilbo for his courage and his tenacity.

And as they settled down that night to tend to their hurts, Thorin felt a real sense of belonging and even a sort of _legitimacy_ that he'd been lacking for so long. Everything was going to work out all right. After all these years, he was going to make back home again. And he would restore his people to their rightful place. The might of the dwarves would ring through the mountain once again.

And it was all thanks to the unlikeliest of creatures. Bilbo Baggins.

Such a strange notion. And yet, it was also somehow comforting. History had proven the futility of sending in an army of dwarves to reclaim anything. It had certainly proven that even the mightiest fortress could fall in a finger snap. So in a way, it was fitting that the crux of Thorin's success rested with the Halfling. An unlikely asset begot unlikely results.

And that was exactly what he needed.

Fin.


End file.
